


Dammit, Amos, I'm a Botonist Not a Doctor

by angryhausfrau



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mentions of bloods/wounds, prax patches amos up after he gets hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27918352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryhausfrau/pseuds/angryhausfrau
Summary: Prax's first aid skills are really not equipped to handle the kinds of injuries Amos keeps coming to him with. And he's getting pretty mad that Amos keeps needing that sort of medical attention. Wishes he'd start taking better care of himself.And in the middle of his lecture about Amos doing just that, feelings get revealed.
Relationships: Amos Burton/Praxidike Meng
Comments: 5
Kudos: 63





	Dammit, Amos, I'm a Botonist Not a Doctor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xoxoctic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xoxoctic/gifts).



> This is for Xoxoctic, and partially for me, but mostly for Xoxoctic. Thanks for yelling about Prax and Amos and Prax/Amos with me!

“You know that I'm a botanist and not a medical doctor, Amos. I don't know why you keep coming to me with this kind of thing.”

They're standing in the harsh lighting of the mechanic shop rather than the sterile med bay and Prax is peering dubiously at the cut on Amos's chest, a cotton swab with disinfectant held in his unsure hand. Exactly how Amos had gotten cut is a mystery – and a mystery that Prax doesn't really need to know the answer to, if he's being honest with himself.

After Jules-Pierre Mao, and Dr. Strickland, and everything surrounding Mei's rescue, he's more than aware of just what kind of man Amos Burton is. Just how far he's willing to go to protect those he's chosen to follow, to guard. And for whatever reason Prax and Mei have fallen into that “protect” category. And there's nothing Amos won't do to see them – and the rest of the kids – safe and shielded from any form of harm.

Including the protective form of harm Amos has been dishing out as the Roci crew attempts to eradicate any remaining pockets of Protomolecule left hidden away by Jules-Pierre Mao or Dr. Strickland and his scientists.

“It's cuz I trust you, doc,” Amos says, clapping a big, rough hand onto Prax's shoulder. “And it's just a little cut anyway – nothing to waste the autodoc on.”

That's not, strictly speaking, true. The cut's deep enough that Amos needs stitches – which he'd opted for over the cellular regen, for reasons known only to him. And it's a wound that falls right at the edge of Prax's limited first-aid skills.

But Amos has this way of looking at Prax – blunt and direct and so full of trust in him. It's almost frightening in its absoluteness. Prax never wants to see that look turn to distrust and betrayal. So this – Amos standing in the mechanical bay, stripped to the waist, while Prax patches him up - has turned into something of a ritual for them whenever Amos comes back from a mission.

And it _is_ every time Amos comes back from a mission, Prax thinks as he starts disinfecting the cut. Because Amos will bodily put himself between his crew and harm every. Single. Time.

And it's a little bit infuriating and a lot concerning. But being infuriated is easier to concentrate on as Prax works to bring the broken edges of skin back together. He needs his hands steady and his head clear of worries about what if.

What if this is the last time they do this? What if Amos gets hurt too badly to fix next time? What if...?

So Prax thinks about how mad he is at Amos for dragging him away from his plants or his daughter or his reading to patch him up, over and over again. Because he has no regard for his own safety. His own worth.

“You should be more careful, Amos,” Prax says, an edge of steel to his voice as he pulls the needle through Amos's tender, breakable – oh, so breakable – skin. “You're not indestructible, you know.”

The point is underlined by Amos's sharp breath as Prax pulls the first stitch taught.

And he can't keep up the steely disapproval. Not in the face of Amos actually hurting. But he has gotten pretty good at gentle chastisement through his being a single parent to Mei. And heading an entire department of younger scientists. So.

“I know you like to go charging headfirst into danger, like to put yourself in the line of fire. Like to protect people. But you're human. Flesh and blood. And you can't – you've got to start being more careful, Amos.”

Prax runs his hand gently over Amos's chest, soothing Amos's flinching at the sting of the needle and steadying himself and making sure – to the best of his limited ability – that his stitches are even and won't scar.

“There are people who care if you come back, you know. Mei would be devastated to lose her new uncle. And the rest of the kids.”

A pause while Prax makes the next stitch. And thinks about his next words.

“And me too, Amos. I – I wouldn't have made it to Io without you. Wouldn't have found Mei without you. And I don't. I can't say what would have happened with Dr. Strickland without you there. But more than that, you're my best friend, Amos.”

That's not. That doesn't come close to describing how Prax feels about him. But it's all the words he can find right now – when he's scared and mad and so, so full of concern for the man who's standing there so still and patient and, and _nonjudgmental_ under his clumsy attempts at doctoring.

“And I don't want to lose you because you were being reckless or, or not valuing just how important you are to us. To everyone on this ship.”

Prax makes another stitch. Almost done, now.

“But mostly, I don't want to lose our friendship. Is that selfish to say?”

Not that Amos has ever cared about things like that. It's one of the things Prax values about their friendship – with Amos, he doesn't need to apologize for how he is or what he feels. Amos takes it all with equanimity. Takes Prax as he is, even at his worst.

And true to form, Amos shrugs – broad chest shifting under Prax's hands.

“It's true, regardless. So you'd better start taking better care of yourself.”

Prax ties off the knot on his suture. It's not professional by any means, but it ought to hold. He wipes away the blood, and he can already see where Amos's flesh is purpling in vicious bruises along his ribs and he runs his fingers over the flesh, pressing in, testing for bruised or broken ribs.

“You'd better come back to me, Amos.”

There's a hitch of breath that doesn't come from Prax pressing at Amos's ribs. And, oh God. What is he saying? What has he done?

After that first gasp, it doesn't feel like Amos is even breathing, he's standing so still.

He's messed everything up, that's what. Messed up his friendship with Amos – as new and tenuous as the tender green shoots of the soja hispida growing in his room. And this. This has to be the end of everything between the two of them. Prax has gotten too clingy, too desperate sounding. And Amos won't want that, won't want his baggage, won't want to come to him for this anymore.

Prax wants to turn away in shame and misery, curl in on himself like the mimosa podica does when touched, so that he doesn't have to face Amos and his look of betrayal. But he finds whatever courage brought him from Ganymede to the Rocinante to Io in search of Mei, in search of vengeance if he couldn't find her, and he steels himself and looks up into Amos's face.

And Amos is looking back at him with such deep emotion, such blunt trust, such naked warmth, that Prax feels himself open up like a helianthus to the sun and before he knows what he's doing he's reached up and cupped Amos's bristled cheek in his hand. And when Amos presses into it, just barely, Prax kisses him.

It's soft and tentative and everything that Amos Burton isn't. So Prax isn't all that surprised when Amos cradles the back of his head in his big hand and pulls him closer, deepens the kiss, until Prax is drowning in it – couldn't think about anything else even if he wanted to.

Eventually, they break apart, Prax gasping for breath, overwhelmed. But Amos is there to hold him up, to keep hold of him, to guide him through this, too.

And Amos is smiling down at Prax, eyes still boring into Prax's soul.

“I was wondering when you'd get the picture, Prax. For a smart guy, you can be a little slow on the uptake.”

“What?” Prax gasps, still feeling breathless – though that probably doesn't have anything to do with lack of oxygen at this point. “What are you talking about?”

Amos laughs. “What, you really thought I had'ta strip half naked for you to patch up a bullet wound on my shoulder? Or this cut?”

And Prax lets his gaze trail down down down Amos's chest to where his jumpsuit is just barely clinging to his hips, riding low enough that Prax isn't even entirely sure he can call him clothed. And yes, Prax can see that it's all a little unnecessary for the kind of wounds he's been tending.

“You were _coming on_ to me?”

Amos shrugs one shoulder. “Yep. Glad the interest's mutual – I thought maybe, but then you didn't do anything. So I'd kinda given up on it.”

“To be fair, I was a little preoccupied with _finding my missing daughter_ at the time to realize that you were hitting on me.” But Prax can feel himself smiling as he says it. Because everything worked out ok and Mei is alive and here on the Rocinante with him and Amos is standing here, steady as a rock, patient, waiting for Prax to catch up with him.

“Well, she ain't missing anymore,” Amos says, matter of fact.

“So what now? We fall into bed together?”

Amos shrugs again. “If you wanna.”

Prax thinks about it for a second. But really, there's not that much to think about.

“Yeah, ok.”

And after, when they're laying together in Amos's bunk, sweaty and a little gross, and very, very happy, Amos turns to him and says, “You're my best friend, too, Prax.”


End file.
